


I Am a Catholic, Please Call a Priest

by AnamaryArmygram



Series: Trope Bingo Fills [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Angst With A Mostly Happy Ending, Appendicitis?, Canadian Shack, Catholic Guilt, Catholicism, Community: fan_flashworks, Community: trope_bingo, Delirium, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Religious Discussion, Sacrament of Confession, Trope Bingo Round 7, giftfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 09:34:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8244529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnamaryArmygram/pseuds/AnamaryArmygram
Summary: Stranded with Illya in a remote cabin, Napoleon suffers from abdominal pain and free-floating guilt.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EveningInHornersCorners](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EveningInHornersCorners/gifts).



> This one's a threefer. First and foremost it's in honor of the birthday of EveningInHornersCorners (who suggested the appendicitis and Catholicism angles), but it also answers the fan_flashworks prompt "Confession" and fills the Hurt/Comfort square on my Trope Bingo card.
> 
> I did only minimal research, so apologies in advance for any medical or geographical lapses.

They get inside before the snowfall becomes heavy. It's an odd little building – nothing in it, really, but a big brick fireplace, a kettle, and a great deal of wood.

The first night is uneventful. They dry their clothes; they melt snow into drinking water; they heat more water half-warm to bathe their not-quite-frostbitten hands and feet.

Around midnight the snow has eased up again, and they manage to get a call in to Headquarters. They receive perfunctory but welcome commiserations, estimate their position, are told that help will arrive in three days or less.

The cold is unpleasant but not dangerous. The fire is enough.

There is no bed, no furniture at all. They button their coats to each other to hold in the warm air and they sleep together, forearm to forearm and knee to knee, on the dry wooden floor.

Dawn, breaking through the single frosted window, wakes them. At a loss for diversion, they carve quick-and-dirty markers from wood chips, score a grid on the floor, and play chess.

Late in the day, Napoleon mentions that his stomach hurts.

Illya cocks an eyebrow. “Tell me – have you _ever_ missed a meal before?”

Napoleon winces at the implied rebuke. “Missed? No,” he says. “Skipped? Yes. Believe me, it isn't that.”

“Do you have an idea of what it might be?”

“I…” Napoleon bites his lip. He actually seems reluctant to speak. But after a long, cold minute, he blurts: “I never had my appendix out.”

* * *

If it's appendicitis (and that's a big “if” – Illya's no medical doctor, and he's astonished at how easily those unused first-aid lessons fade in the brain) – _if_ it's appendicitis, there's virtually nothing to be done. The appendix could burst at any moment – and then, in the absence of immediate surgery, there's absolutely no hope.

Illya doesn't dare say this. Then again, he doesn't have to.

The real panic begins shortly after sunset. Napoleon has been silent, lost in open-eyed reverie, his head tilting gradually to the right. Then he jerks up, wincing from the sudden motion. “I don't think I'm sorry for my sins.”

Well – it's not the _very_ strangest thing he has ever said. Illya waits to hear more. They are sitting on the floor, facing each other; the fire is to Napoleon's left hand and Illya's right.

And now Napoleon is sputtering out words, so fast and and so muddled that Illya's English fails him for sentences on end. Something about God; something about conscience; something about Hell.

Illya wants to think the best of his partner, wants to believe it's not a simple mental breakdown but something more comprehensible, like delirium resulting from septic shock.

It's bad news either way.

Napoleon doesn't know if he can be forgiven. He doesn't say for what.

“Tss, tss,” says Illya, silently calculating how best to calm his partner. He lays his hand lightly on Napoleon's shoulder and assures him, first, that his God is not angry. Is this about the war? It isn't a sin to do your duty, is it?

Never mind that, says Napoleon. What about _women_?

It takes Illya a moment to remember the scripture, and longer to render it into English. “The spirit,” he says hesitantly, “is lively. But the flesh is not strong.”

Napoleon's pained grimace turns, for one brief moment, into a smile. “You must think I'm being absurd.” His voice is soft. “I _am_ being absurd. But do you know how often I've missed Mass?”

“Not as often as I have.” Illya watches his partner's face, hoping for another smile.

The smile comes, though tinged with bitterness. “Aren't you an atheist?”

“Officially? Yes.”

This hint of a revelation is having its desired effect. Napoleon is, for the moment, not thinking about his own soul. But given his hunched posture and gingerly breathing, it's unlikely _anything_ will be able to distract him from his body.

“You believe in God?” Napoleon asks.

“That might be overstating the matter. But I do believe in religion. Even Communists have grandmothers, you know.”

“I can imagine your grandmothers,” muses Napoleon. “Little old ladies as tough as you are, kissing icons and wearing black veils.”

Illya notes the crudity of the stereotype, but finds himself unable to take offense. He keeps his tone level. “You're more right than wrong, my friend. Only they were much tougher than I am.”

Napoleon's wince has become permanent, and he is beginning to sound short of breath. But he continues talking. “Are you familiar with the Black Madonna of Częstochowa?”

“Not really. It's in Poland, I know that.”

“My grandmother, my mother's mother, kept a print of her in the front hall. And an image of the Divine Mercy in the downstairs powder room.”

Illya, not knowing what to say to this, remains silent. But when Napoleon does not continue, he prompts him: “You're a Roman Catholic, then?”

Napoleon steels himself and gives a deliberate low chuckle. “You can take the boy out of the church…”

“Does this mean you are obliged to confess to a priest?” It's a risky question – it could trigger another torrent of incoherent panic – but if Illya can get the matter out into the open, maybe he'll discover a way to put his partner's mind at ease. Besides, he's genuinely curious.

Napoleon simply says “Yes.”

“If there is no priest – if you are, say, alone with your friend in a cabin in rural Saskatchewan – then what do you do?”

“I could make an act of contrition,” says Napoleon, “if I could be sincere.”

“Do you want to try that?”

Illya, having assumed that an _act_ of contrition is some kind of ritual gesture, is mildly surprised when Napoleon begins to speak: “My God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins…” He rattles through the memorized prayer, faster than Illya has ever heard him talk.

After the “amen,” his hands creep to the center of his belly and he leans sideways, away from the fire. Illya scoots around to sit beside him, to support him if necessary, to block off at least a little of the cold air from the far side of the room. Napoleon curls up, his boots toward the fire, his shoulder settling between Illya's crossed legs.

Something seems unaccountably wrong here, but Illya keeps his voice calm. “Is that better?”

“I _feel_ better,” says Napoleon. “But I still don't know if I've made my peace with God.”

There is something formulaic about that expression, Illya thinks. Where has he heard it before?

While he wonders, he brings a hand up to stroke his partner's cold, sweating head.

Finally it comes to him. “I like what Henry David Thoreau said…”

Napoleon says nothing. Illya looks down at him. He is asleep.

Illya keeps talking. “On his deathbed, someone asked him if he had made his peace with God. And Thoreau replied, 'I have no need to make peace with him, because we have never quarreled.'”

Napoleon stirs a little without waking. His voice comes, slurred and broken. “Bless me, Father, for I… I sinned. It has been five or six years…”

Illya, knowing this is not for him, covers his ears.

* * *

Dawn comes again, and Illya disentangles himself from his partner in order to feed the weakening fire. Just before he throws on a second log, his communicator sounds. The voice on the other end is hard to make out over the chop of helicopter blades, but the message is clear enough: the rescuers are here.

Illya automatically grabs another log, then catches himself and sets it back on the pile. He walks over and touches his sleeping partner's shoulder. “Napoleon, they've come for us.”

Napoleon's eyes open but do not focus. “Fire,” he says.

“Don't knock it,” says Illya. “It's kept us alive so far.”

* * *

Napoleon is sitting up in the hospital bed, wholly alert. The doctor stands on one side of him; Illya sits on the other. The doctor is a ruddy, buxom woman whose only unattractive feature is a tendency to snort when she laughs. What she's laughing at is the idea – the very _idea_! – that he could have had appendicitis.

“No, no,” she says. “It was a much more benign set of circumstances. Some muscle soreness from prior overexertion. Emotional stress. Cold. But most of all, the effect of inanition – that means an empty stomach,” she adds before Napoleon can interrupt her, “– on your ulcer.”

Napoleon frowns. “I have an ulcer?”

Illya gives a crooked smile. “Why am I not surprised?”

Later, when they are alone in the room, Illya asks the question that's been at the back of his mind. “I have never known you to be a practicing religionist. I didn't even entertain the possibility until you began… regressing the other night. So what was your quarrel with the Catholic church?”

“No quarrel,” says Napoleon. Then, with a wry smile, he adds: “No regression, either. I never officially left. I'm a _bad_ Catholic.”

“You sound almost proud.”

“I am almost proud. It's a noble tradition, and one I intend to uphold as long as possible.”

“I shouldn't call in a priest, then?” asks Illya, keeping his tone neutral. He isn't sure whether he wants Napoleon to think he is serious.

“Of course not. I'm in no danger now.”

Illya cocks an eyebrow. “My friend, you're always in danger. You work for the U.N.C.L.E. Listen,” he adds in a rapid undertone, “you'll never hear me say this again, but: _Go to confession!_ I hear it's good for the soul.”


End file.
